


Steady

by SmilingSweetlyOnwards



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Mild Gore, dead bodies and such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilingSweetlyOnwards/pseuds/SmilingSweetlyOnwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief nods of acknowledgement are his only greeting, he knows normally they’d be grumbling and chattering in the absence of their superiors. Their bleary eyes certainly tell tales of summons from warm, and happy slumber. But behaviour of that sort wouldn’t seem right considering their present company. </p><p>She can’t be over twelve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady

**Author's Note:**

> This was a piece I originally wrote as an English assessment, (and now feel brave enough to share) Originally it was written set during Colin Dexter's novels but I have adapted it to be Endeavour canon compliant, the changes are minor but I may post the original, which I prefer, at a later date. 
> 
> I apologise for any typos, I'm far from perfect.

 The tape flutters wildly occasionally giving an involuntary snap as a Siberian gust snatches clumsily with long fingers - cruel digits which now turn to pinching and clawing the cheeks of the man making his way across the frozen grass. He proceeds to pull his coat closer about his person as the chill slips down around his neck. Each heavy footstep crunches; the sound seems almost rude as it shatters the blanket of chilly silence the morning has drawn about itself.

The idea of tiptoeing flares up briefly in his mind; a glitch in the smooth mechanism of gears. It is a childish notion and he is not a childish man.

 His own chilly fingers adjust their grip on his case and he continues on his way, towards the group of figures huddled under the naked trees. The sky above is washed out and grey, as are the faces of the silent constables as the look up from the meagre glow of their lighters. Brief nods of acknowledgement are his only greeting, he knows normally they’d be grumbling and chattering in the absence of their superiors. Their bleary eyes certainly tell tales of summons from warm, and happy slumber. But behaviour of that sort wouldn’t seem right considering their present company.

She can’t be over twelve.

 To many it would seem surprising that such an expanse could have leaked from such a small figure. However, not much has ever caused this man to flinch. He merely lowers his frame into a kneeling position with a grunt of effort, placing his case at his side. Proceeding to open it, he removes the necessary instruments, placing the neatly on a cloth out of reach of the blood stained mud. This a small, if not gruesome, spectacle in itself, frozen in abstract whirls and rifts in the overnight frost. Crystals of the precious substance cling to the grass. They glisten, red as rubies, as the sun peeps shyly through the bare limbs above. A malicious act masked by momentary beauty.

 The face remains wooden as he sets to work, brow creasing slightly as the right hand begins lines of neat notes. Left starting upon a more grisly task. The two hands move independently with great ease, slipping into the rhythm of the routine movements. Components of a well-oiled and practised machine.

 Staying in silence, the group stands motionless, as though they too, like the ground beneath their boots, have been frozen. Their breath rises like tendrils of smoke in the chilly air. Occasionally the man sighs, his broad form expanding and emptying like bellows. One of the constables succumbs to a coughing fit, his figure contorting as he inhales great frantic gulps of air. When he has recovered he finds himself mumbling out an apology; unsure as to whom it is aimed.

***

 The man is still working methodically about the small figure, which seems almost doll like laid out in such an unlikely place and in such unpleasant circumstances. A discarded toy thrown out the pram in the midst of a tantrum.

 Dark eyes flick back and forth behind thick lenses, the formidable mind filing and organising the evidence before them as he sifts through the matted mass of hair. It was once blonde. Pulled down by its own weight, it spreads out like a sticky fibrous mesh, slowly and inevitably easy apart at the will of gravity as he sifts though segment by segment. Oddly it reminds of his mother’s tea strainer. Gears, previously turning at a rapid rate, cease their circling momentarily and the slightly humorous, albeit morbid, is noted.

The broad face does not shape itself into a smile.

 As he continues his gentle manipulations something breaks away from the remnants of the scalp that certainly isn’t just blood despite its colour. Behind him he hears one of the men retch.

No one laughs.

 The brows furrow slightly as a few concise notes are made this new information. The writing is still neat and the hands still steady. Indeed far steadier than the knees of Sergeant Jakes who staggers away to be reunited with his breakfast. Leaning over an old fence post, with the wind biting at his exposed neck and splinters shredding his palm, the warm kitchen seems like a memory from another lifetime. He attempts to focus on anything but the scene he has just turned away from. It seems she is burned onto his retinas.

He tells the other men it’s the wind that caused the tears.

***

 The Boss arrives and the group stirs themselves as though waking from sleep; yawning and stretching the cold from cramping limbs. They inform and question as required and the newly arrived figures survey the scene with the disgruntled air of those who have received an unwelcome early awakening. Orders are snapped and men despatched. The numbers dwindle and those remaining again lapse into near silence.

 Finally finished the doctor rises to his feet with a deep sigh and a great creaking of joints; it’s been a time since the mental mechanics were matched by those of the physical body. Removing his gloves with a snap he nods in way of greeting to the Inspector and his Bag man The gesture is returned and for a mere moment words unsaid hang in the air, thickening it and buzzing in an unspoken language of half formed phrases which linger behind closed lips. Then the moment is gone and the man is on his way. There is little to say to them, all the evidence is obvious, laid out in size 1 shoes and a pink dress.

 Turning around one of the uniformed constables watches him leave, if he was a poetic or artistic man he may have thought that the scene seemed rather striking, the lone form of his retreating colleague dwarfed by the huge frosted expanse that stretches indefinitely into the distance, where the lingering fog caresses the horizon.  However, poetry is not his forte and he merely thinks that he looks a little like a blue bottle crawling up a window pane, but it’s not a bad effort.

 The Inspector’s young bagman also turns, his mouth set in a firm line. The blood has set his stomach churning uncomfortably and even if he had noticed the speech now issuing from his superior beside him he wouldn’t trust himself to open his mouth and interrupt. But the situation does not arise, as he does not in fact notice it; his mind is dwelling on other observations. As far as he is aware, his eyes are perfectly serviceable and he could have sworn that he saw the hand sliding the girls eyes gently closed tremble slightly.

 

 A few days later another bunch flowers joins the colourful array already covering the scene. What sets them apart is the blankness of the accompanying card. Almost as though the person who left them wished to remain anonymous or just didn’t quite know what to say.

**Author's Note:**

> reviews are appreciated, particularly anything constructive as I'm always looking to improve. 
> 
> Nothing else to say other than I hope this is worthy of such a lovely (and sadly small) fandom. x


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